I AM WRITING a brilliant novel. Ive been working on it for about seven years. I have written almost 10 pages -- jealous? -- and Im sure youre dying to read it. Too bad; its top secret. All I can tell you is that it is set in the city of my birth, Tulsa, Oklahoma.

Now, you may say that setting a novel in your hometown is lazy and cliché and shows that all youre really trying to do is synthesize a romantic version of your youth and paste it onto a flimsy story line in a weak-minded swing at fame and fortune. To which I would say, Oh, yeah? Have have have you written 10 pages of a novel? And then I would cry for a brief moment.

But then, I would shake it off, straighten up, and prove you wrong. Its not just that we all imbue our hometown with nostalgia. Im reflecting the Tulsa of today.

To do so, I had to engage in some more research. I usually go home a few times every year during holidays, but you know how that works: You hit the same places, see the same people, avoid the same warrants. I needed to see what Tulsa had become since I moved away two decades ago.

On the smooth, comfortable, refreshing plane ride there, I did a little extra research. One article talked about how Tulsa was working to keep its young people from moving away. It said that for a few decades, creative 20-somethings had been immigrating to cities that seemed to offer a more cosmopolitan experience, to cities known for something besides the huge praying hands at Oral Roberts University (which are kind of cool, youve got to admit).

I related. When I left Tulsa, I had a 1977 Granada, an associates degree, and a mustache. I wanted more in life. I wanted a goatee.

Todays youth, though, are more demanding. They want to see a skyline. They want cool bars and great restaurants in a funky urban environment. They want a great library or at least to follow a great library on Twitter. (Actually, that one is taken care of. Just go to www.twitter.com/tulsalibrary to see what I mean.)

To find those other things and thus continue my research, I headed to the corner of East 18th Street and South Boston Avenue. Id been told of a sophisticated wine bar just south of downtown. This was an area that no one ever went to when I was a teenager. Back then, it was dilapidated and scary, a symbol of the abandonment of a citys core, one that was as prevalent in the 1980s as high-waisted jeans were. Now, though, Tulsa is as aggressive as any city in trying to reclaim formerly abandoned areas in and around downtown.

It was a good sign that I couldnt find a parking spot on the street when I arrived that Saturday night. The streets were full of urban sophisticates; some were at the wine bar, Vintage 1740 (cool name -- go Tulsa!), while other rougher, leather-wearing types chose the biker bar across the street (acceptable level of inner-city intrigue -- its like New York!).

I met a friend from high school at Vintage 1740. We each ordered a glass of red wine (Rombauer Zinfandel, because thats the way I roll now that Im big-city). We sat on the patio and watched the posing hipsters, the easygoing raconteurs, and the beautiful people mingle on the street.

I could imagine a new beginning to my novel, one I never before could have imagined for a tome set in Tulsa: A worldly writer comes back to Tulsa to escape the fact that no one in the world recognizes his intense awesomeness. He returns to find a revitalized city, confident in itself, as cosmopolitan as you want it to be. Along the way, he finds love, acceptance, and a sense of self-worth. George Clooney will play him in the movie version.

Then I realized I was starving, so I left and drove across town along 11th Street, what used to be Route 66. It is the street I grew up on, a long stretch of car lots, motels, fast-food joints, and old neighborhoods. Some of the old landmarks are now gone or have been shut down, like the Metro Diner and the old Rose Bowl buildings bowling alley. But the Coney I-Lander, where I worked during high school, is still there.

It was late, almost closing time. I was the only person in the store when I ordered three coneys with cheese, chili, onions, and extra mustard. They tasted good. Comforting.

There has to be a scene in my novel, I thought, where the hero escapes for a few hours to his old-school haunts. Everyone loves a little nostalgia, right? Its why you go home. Maybe on page 11.